


Grief

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://gotexchange-mod.livejournal.com/829.html?page=1&view=80701#comments">Game of Thrones Comment Fic Meme</a>.</p><p>Petyr has just learned of the Red Wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief

He makes it to the back entrance of the brothel before he feels his legs give. He collapses against the wall, the empty bottle in his hand smashing on the stones below, and retches until his throat is raw. Petyr is thankful for the isolated area, though the idea of keeping up appearances at this time seems almost laughable. When he finally comes up from air he notices, with a great deal of confusion, that he is crying; he cannot remember when he started, though the tears are still hot on his face. He wipes them away with an angry hand and takes a calming breath, struggling for control.

No one had bothered to tell him the news personally. He had to overhear, as he does with everything else. That in and of itself doesn’t bother him, but the fact that he didn’t matter enough to be told personally does. That was the first pain, the first thing that drove him to drink, before the idea that she was dead even settled in. It still wasn’t quite settled. His mind was having difficulty accepting the fact, making sense of it, regarding it as anything other than a bad dream. His body went along with that denial, his limbs heavy even before the alcohol had dulled everything. He wasn’t even sure how he had arrived here, though he has no desire to turn around.

He regards the darkness surrounding him with cloudy eyes, and rubs a hand against the stone wall till the skin breaks and bleeds. The pain is sharp and radiates throughout his body, and he smiles bitterly as he pushes aside everything else and lets the throbbing ring in his ears.

\-----

It is bad form for a brothel owner to sample his wares. Mixing business with pleasure was never a good idea, and normally Petyr would know that. Normally he would care, but now he is nothing but wine and pain and the years of work he has put into his advancement seem meaningless. The pain in his hand has subsided, he needs something else.

The girl is new but not inexperienced, and she doesn’t say a word about the wine on his breath or the blood he smears on her when he grips her wrist. He’ll leave bruises on her before the night is through, he knows it, and he almost wants to. It’s not fair that she should laugh and be completely unaffected when his world has just fallen apart.

He had admired her before—her hair was auburn, and hung to her waist in waves. When he’s on top of her, inside her, he buries his face in it and calls her Cat. He can feel the tears on his face again, and pounds into her out of anger and disgust and still, she doesn’t say a word.

\-----

In the morning he feels completely drained, as though someone leeched him to get the bad blood out. He has nail marks on him, and he scratches them again until the sharp pain makes him bite his lip. She had left him a new bottle of wine, and he downs it straight. He mouth is ashes and nothing had ever tasted sweeter.


End file.
